dreams

Cottonwood Colorado

/ lovizmytrio / 2 Comments

trees don’t grow on beaches
and they shouldn’t be here
eighty years old
stacked up along the sand
a domineering presence
of the shade i crave

it is June now
and cotton floats in the air
in and out of our hair
our mouths, our pieces of food
a dreamy landscape
of seeds starting anew

i sit for hours
as lyrics drown out
the blue-collar Bud-drinking
daytime neighbors
i could sit all day
my cottonwood Colorado
a dreamy landscape
of all i will leave behind

soon we will breathe
the salty seascape
there will be no trees
only a faulty umbrella
unable to withstand wind
no cotton bleeding with life
no comparison to this life

and will my girls
sassy as ever in their new bikinis
remember what it was like
in the cottonwood Colorado
of their youth?
or immerse in a
languagefoodculture
that blends together
in a different dreamy landscape?

Dots on a Map

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yes, it was Hitler.
he gathered them up,
took family members one by one,
and like feathers
tossed into a torrent,
the survivors fled home

that’s my first dot

their home across the sea,
ancestors’ ashes scattered
into a grey Polish sky,
is what brings them to me

my second dot

a rejection letter,
a flyer in a park,
three daughters and a school
quite fluent in Spanish
who years later would fly in
two Spaniards
to fill every moment of our lives

my third dot

was it her Inquisition,
or Hitler’s wrath,
or the coming together
of lines on a child’s paper
that connected the dots,
the dots on a map
that make my dream a reality?

three Colorado girls.
Spaniards full of life.
a doctor from Jerusalem.
with a few words,
desires both evil and good,
we are all connected.

Imaginary Waves

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arriving just after dawn
trees bend in the breeze
by midday we swallow sand
the beach’s beauty tainted
a hot wind to bring a new season

I could put my hand out the window
make imaginary waves
pretend that my rhythmic motions
are wings carrying me elsewhere

instead I stare into the distance
mountains masked by haze
and wait for the moment
my moment
when wind will mean more
than bent branches
and the coming of summer

Sign Here

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a short signature
that will begin a new life
sadness subsided

Dream Come True?

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nausea in and out
sickened with sadness and loss
will it be worth it?

My Naked Feet

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i am 34
i am 16
i am glaring at you
and i have cried for three days
she won’t say a word

i dial his number
she drives in my
barefoot-on-pavement rain
the same water that washed away
my 16-year-old Oxfordian tears?
these are the tears
that will take me to Spain

that will bring back my youth
and allow me to say goodbye
to everything i have ever known

and when i send these
(as she calls them)
poetic texts?
they will wash away
when i put my naked feet
on the pavement again
on another continent
a place i’ve never been
a place i’ve only dreamed about

Nonrefundable Reservations

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day eleven, wall seventeen:
a stack of irreplaceable bills,
nonrefundable reservations
scraping at my dream
(everything i can’t give,
everything i can’t take back)

will it be worth it,
will they open their eyes wider
upon breathing Mediterranean air,
or will the burdens bearing down
on mama and daddy
be heavier than sea-level breath?

if i could slide down the mountains
right down into the sea
and shed myself of my
nonrefundable reservations,
would i be free enough to see the beauty
behind the walls i must still face?

My Last Four Days

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this will be my last four days.
i have one cardboard box,
a creekside path,
an empty laptop bag,
and just a bit of my soul
trailing me out the door.

i’d like to leave it open,
for you to say, Come back.
i haven’t asked for much–
and given so much instead,
but you don’t see the notes
i receive from a teacher
twenty years back,
the one who saw the light in me
when i was thirteen,
when i am thirty-four

instead you are blinded by dollars,
hassles, and paperwork
(aren’t we all?)
so much that the dream
that once burned inside you?
it has withered away
into a tiny flame
barely bright enough
to blaze beside my fire

Thirteen Ways of Looking at These Brownies

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Modeled after Wallace Stevens’
“Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”

I
my grandmother’s hands
sifting the too-expensive flour
to make my father his
50th birthday cake
(the last time she would show me
her Italian kitchen)

II
the torn-apart bag
flour spilling at the reams
and the brownie recipe of my dreams

III
the first bite of brownie
a culinary orgasmic attack
against the tongue
of every sweet i’d
previously put into my mouth

IV
the shy nudge
the first placement
of a brownie on another’s desk
a reach for friendship

V
imagine a bicycle
a saddlebag
a laptop
five pounds of brownies
1029 feet of elevation gain
gratitude at the end of the ride

VI
Thursday evening
sun setting over every season
a thick black spoon
eight ingredients
black brownie mix
as thick as hope

VII
brownie thank-you cards
mysteriously appear in my mailbox

VIII
handwritten notes
begging to be included on
The Brownie List

IX
popping peppermint in at Christmas
and my daughter’s two-month-later birthday
because everyone has a favorite brownie

X
the joy that rests in your mouth
after eating the brownie
and the joy that rests in your heart
after sharing the taste–
they are one and the same

XI
the small hands
that crack eggs
that beg for a taste
that show the mercy of generosity
as together we make brownies

XII
4500 applicants
an ocean
an opportunity of a lifetime
a store without my brownie ingredients

XIII
seven of the best years of my life
a semi-broken heart
and all the brownies
i will never be able to bake

Crossroads

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every morning
as i come to my crossroads
just after dawn
touches her fingers to sky,
i make my decision–
an uphill battle
breaking my muscles,
the wind of the highlands
an ever-greater challenge
than the meandering creek

i pedal for simple sights:
the middle-aged blonde
with two matching goldens,
(sometimes leashed, sometimes free)
the bright yellow spot
of a SmartCar, and me
always wondering just where
on the curvacious beauty of
a road i will pass it,
the ever-silent deer
who peer intently at my machine
as they stand cautiously
at the edge of civilization.

and today? a gift,
the top of the most tenuous climb,
the wind bending back leaves
and straightening out flags,
pushing against my will,
when what should cross the road
but a lone pronghorn,
its native spirit leaping
over barbed wire and into
the chaparral, leaving me to
finish my ride, open up
a starvation-induced chocolate
whose wrapper reads,
You are exactly where
you’re supposed to be

(i don’t throw it away,
its aluminum words
imprinted on the crossroads
that may lead me elsewhere tomorrow)